


There ain't no me

by BehindTheCellarDoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester-centric, Gen, Happens at the end of season 5, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, no romance implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 01:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13777197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindTheCellarDoor/pseuds/BehindTheCellarDoor
Summary: After Sam throws himself into the cage with Michael, Dean griefs his brother nursing bottle after bottle of whiskey; Keeping his promise, moving on, is harder than he thought it would be.





	There ain't no me

Dean’s hands gripped tightly the wheel of the Impala, knuckles turning white around the leather as he sped up a narrow and unnamed dirt road; his destination unknown even to him. He had been driving for countless hours in complete silence except for the mess inside his head, trying to keep his eyes on the horizon in front of him and away from anything else, trying in vain to clear his mind and forget as he had promised. The front lights of the old car illuminated the tree lined stretch he was driving on, mixing with the red cast of the setting sun and creating strange shadows that danced on the uneven ground. Dean, transfixed by the sight, turned his face to the seat next to him in awe and with half a sentence stuck between his lips, expecting to find a sleeping Sammy, his head resting against the window, his arms crossed over his chest and his ungodly long hair falling over his face. Instead, he was received by a pang of pain in his stomach, and the emptiness of the car. All alone except for a shotgun where his brother should had been. Where he was _supposed_ to be; where he belonged.

Dean turned his head back to the road ahead, his lips pressed into a thin line, his grip tighter. He reached an arm to the back seat and picked up an open bottle of whiskey that had been lying around with some others; some empty, some yet to be opened. He popped the cap off and –without taking his eyes from the setting sun– downed about a third of it in one single gulp. He closed it again and placed it carelessly next to the weapon. He continued to drive, drive, drive. The radio was silent; the only sound was that of his heart, his breathing, and the engine of the Impala roaring in the middle of nowhere. They drifted through unmarked roads and lonely highways, losing track of time and names and places. He stopped a couple of times to charge gas, to get a bite of something that tasted like nothing, coming back to an empty car that somehow no longer felt like a home. Just a black car with a trunk full of guns, a backseat decorated with more than a dozen of empty bottles of different kinds of alcohol, and a shotgun riding as –how appropriate– shotgun.

He didn’t know how long he had been driving, it could have been days, weeks, but somehow he found himself back where it all had started and where it all had ended. He parked the Impala in the grass and looked through the window. It was night and the moon had decided not to show up, maybe it was mourning too. He stared at the patch of dirt in the middle of the field, to the common eye there was nothing particular about it, but he knew better. He reached for a new bottle, the shotgun, and got out of the car. He sat, his back resting against the cold door as he opened the whiskey and drank. He spilled some on the ground, and went back at it. When the bottle was finished, he tossed it violently and it crashed against a short wooden fence. Dean’s legs were stretched forward, his body limp, his head tilted upwards to the dark sky above him… and the shotgun, silent, on his right hand. He closed his eyes, bit his cheeks and shook his head slowly. There was faint smile in his face that was anything but happy, and a pair of tears –silent, always silent– running down, staining his shirt. He opened his eyes and blinked fast, trying to put them away.

“Hey, Sammy…” he finally said, looking at the patch of dirt. “I am sorry, I tried. I tried, I swear.” He closed his eyes again, another tear falling, “I know I promised, but Sam… I can’t do it. I can’t do this; I need you with me, man.”

He placed the shotgun between his legs, he barrel resting just below his chin, cold metal pressing against cold skin. His finger trembled over the trigger.

“It was not supposed to go like this. This is wrong. Sam… Sammy, if there is any way you can hear me, please forgive me…”

He pulled the safety off and took a deep breath.

 “But there ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.” He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Silence.

Click.

Silence.

Click. Click. Click.

He opened his eyes, shocked and angry at the shotgun that refused to do his work.

Click.

Nothing.

He yelled and threw it across the field and it landed on the patch of dirt. Dean grabbed his head and screamed, he punched the hood of the car until there were dents all over it and his knuckles were bleeding, and finally he gave up and cried silently into the night.

“Dean,” said a voice next to him.

He almost jumped and turned around. There, sitting in the ground with his legs crossed and staring back at him was Castiel, holding two shotgun shells in his hand. Dean took his eyes away from him. He was too tired to fight, too tired to punch him until the blood on his knuckles was not only his, too tired to take the shells and fetch the gun. So he just stared at the night.

“How did you find me, Cas?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I heard you. I felt you were about to do something terribly stupid.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean, you need to stop this. Sam died a hero, you don’t need to bear this burden.”

“He died a hero? I don’t fucking care, Cas, the only thing I care about is that my brother is trapped in a cage with your demented brothers and it is all because of me. This is my fault.” His words were punctuated by angry stabs.

“Dean…” the angel pleaded and reached a hand to place on the hunter’s shoulder. “Dean, it is time to move. You have to go home.”

“Home?  I don’t have a home, Cas.” He shook the hand away.

Castiel looked at the impala, and then at Dean who was now inspecting his knuckles with a serious face. The angel stood up and offered his hand to Dean.

“Please.”

Dean looked up, his eyes meeting Cas. He glanced at the place where Sam had fallen and disappeared, then back at Castiel, and took his hand.

*

He killed the engine and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel until he had enough courage to step out. He walked down the gravelly path towards a wooden door, warm light coming from inside, looking back at the car for a second before he willed himself to knock. There were voices coming from inside. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then the door opened.

“Dean?”

“Hey, Lisa.”

**Author's Note:**

> Working for this book was amazing and there is no better reward than having it printed in your hands knowing that someone across the world is reading your story. Thank you.


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